The New Rules for Blondes by Selena Coppock Read Free Book Online

Rock Show!”
    I took a deep breath, and as Constantine walked by us on the nearly empty sidewalk, I caught his eye and said, “Great concert in there.” He acted surprised and appreciative, and Heidi, Constantine, and I had a nice chat about performance and power ballads. He came off as surprisingly humble and sweet, only further convincing me that perhaps I had “finally found the love of a lifetime,” just like FireHouse said.
    “How did you guys hear about this concert?” Constantine inquired.
    “I’m kinda of embarrassed to admit this,” I said as I scolded myself from inside my own head, Selena! If you apologize and act like it’s crazy behavior, it becomes crazy behavior! AshWants- ToRock never apologizes, and neither should you! I continued, “But I saw it on your Twitter feed.”
    “Oh yeah, I’m trying to do more promotion stuff with Twitter lately,” he said. You sure are, Connie M. , I thought. Your Twitter feed reads like a self-promotion deluge and somehow I love it. “Where do you guys live?” he asked.
    “In Brooklyn. We drove out here . . . for this concert . . . it’s not too far,” I lied.
    “Whoa—you guys came all the way out here to see me!? A D-list celebrity!” he said.
    Stop the record—did he just call himself a D-list celebrity? His self-awareness was both refreshing and worrisome. I looked at him, tilted my head, and tried to peer into his subconscious. I had been jokingly referring to Constantine on my Facebook page and Twitter feed as exactly that—“a D-list celebrity.” Did he somehow know? Could he tell that I’d been reading his every tweet for the past few months? Did he know that I’d spent many a drunken night typing his name into Google images and scrolling through photo after photo of his smiling face and sick weave? Or maybe this is just how he charms the ladies—with self-awareness and good hair.
    Perhaps all the gossip I’ve ever heard about him is wrong, I thought, and he’s not a complete douchewad cheesedick after all. Maybe he’s just completely misunderstood and I’m the only one who gets him. This belief was only further compounded when Constantine not only gave me his email address but also his phone number. Yes, my friends, digits . This exchange didn’t just come out of nowhere—we had some laughs, talked about comedy and performing, established that I’m from Boston and he’s been there. We made some serious connexies, people!
    “Send me an email about your comedy show sometime,” he said as I typed his email address into my old-school flip phone. “Whoa—nice phone! Haha!”
    “I know—I have a whole standup bit about how I’m a Luddite and I hate technology and I still carry a Discman because I’m like a Pilgrim.”
    “That’s funny stuff—here, why don’t I give you my number?” he added, and ten digits rolled off his Greek tongue into my millennium-style phone, and my hands shook with excitement and surprise.
    By then, his “roadies” (the other guys in the band/his friends) were finished loading the equipment into a lame-looking van, so he had to get a move on. Heidi and I hugged and cheek-kissed him good-bye, then crossed the street and walked into the parking lot.
    “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” Heidi whispered as I took deep breaths.
    “No freaking out until we’re safely in the car,” I spit out as I nearly hyperventilated. Once we were safely inside the sealed pod of the rental car, I commenced shrieking, “HOLY FUCK, I JUST GOT CONSTANTINE MAROULIS’S NUMBER! HOW YA LIKE THEM APPLES!? I GOT HIS NUMBA! HAHA! OMG OMG OMG!” Heidi and I hugged and stared at each other, attempting to digest the gravity of the night’s events.
    “Selena—you amaze me!” Heidi blurted out. “You’ve proven that anyone can achieve his or her dreams, no matter what they are. Obama didn’t prove that— you did! You did it! Yes, we can!” she shrieked. I went to bed that night floating on air. It was as easy as